


broken, beloved flower

by Kaiwren



Series: roots are just the base of a story [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Background, Character Study, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23573476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiwren/pseuds/Kaiwren
Summary: Julian’s mother always holds him close, naming him cariad, beloved, dandelion, hers. She embraces him with all the fervor that she recoils from his father, naming Julian her son the way Viscount Pankratz has never claimed him.Exploring Jaskier’s life, before he met Geralt, in short snippets.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: roots are just the base of a story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696843
Comments: 6
Kudos: 190





	broken, beloved flower

Julian’s mother always holds him close, naming him cariad, beloved, dandelion, hers. She embraces him with all the fervor that she recoils from his father, naming Julian her son the way Viscount Pankratz has never claimed him.

She sings to him in Elder, her tongue making the forbidden (forbidden only by Father, Julian knows, speak Not this way in front of Father), language soar, it’s melodies entrancing his mind. He sings back clumsily, his tongue stumbling, catching, but singing nonetheless. 

Mum smiles, slipping a necklace under his chemise, it’s silver pendant catching on his overcoat. He picks it up with toddler-clumsy fingers, examining the little buttercup on its chain.

“Jaskier,” She Names him. “You are Jaskier, my love.”

—-

Julian is five- he thinks he’s five, his mum smiles and nods when he holds up his splayed hand when he’s asked how old he is- Julian is five when the golden-eyed man comes calling for a contract.

He’s tall, (everyone is, to Julian, but the golden eyed man holds himself different, not bowing or scraping or imperious to his father, simply other), and even Julian can see the subtle flinches, the slightest hint of fear Viscount Alfred Pankratz has for this man. The Viscount (never Dad, or Papa, or dada, always Viscount or Father) promises him payment, golden crowns, money Viscount Alfred would never dream of letting Julian touch. The golden man nods, and turns his back. Two swords reflect the bright burning of the candles, and Julian cannot look away.

But Mum scruffs him like a naughty puppy, and takes him out beyond the city, sings to him in a sun dappled meadow, and Julian smiles. Here, now, there are no worries. No disappointed Father, no fearful, tense Mum. Simply song, and the smell of the forest in his nose. The only shreds of happiness the heir of the Viscount of Lettenhove has ever had.

—-

That night, when they must return to Father, his mum holds him close and whispers. “My sweetheart, my Julian, mummy loves you. Never forget that, my brave dandelion.”

Julian grips her closer, that night, before she tears herself away. He does not let the Viscount Pankratz see the saltwater that graces his cheeks.

The Viscount does not even look at him enough to notice.

—-

The strange man returns two days later, a rotting head carried at his side and a grim expression on his face. 

Julian stands silently at his father's side as the viscount hands the man his coin, (Witcher, his father names him, with the same hint of disgust falling off his tongue as he’d introduced Julian. Witcher must also be Other, then, Julian thinks.) 

His Father dismisses the nameless Witcher again, with condescending slivers of hatred piercing his uncaring facade.

But Jaksier’s mum scruffs him again, hurrying him through secret shortcuts hidden within the walls, hurrying him to where the Witcher is settling his packs unpin his horse.

“Witcher,” She gasps, none of her husband’s casual disrespect in her voice. “Witcher, Give me your Name, please.”

The Witcher turns, and grunts a non reply. “Eskel.” He doesn’t elaborate, turning back to soothe his horse.

“Eskel. Please, take him,” She shoves Jaskier at the man, ignoring his shocked look and grasping fingers. (His mother has never given him away, never forsaken him before).

The Witcher turns, affront hidden within his untouchable expression. (It is not hidden to Jaskier and his mum, they both have lived this fear-life far too long). “Witchers don't accept kids in payment, not anymore, Lady Sirona. Haven’t in decades.”

“He will not survive one here, if you do not take him, Eskel.” His mother bites back, and Jaskier shudders. She’d never told him that explicitly, before. She’d never hidden the full truth from him, though. “Take him to Oxenfurt, then. The Academy. Tell the dean Sirona calls in her debts.”

Eskel raised a single, disbelieving eyebrow. “And in payment?” He looks at Jaskier, eyes stripping away all the survival instincts and slight glamours he instinctively threw up, as Jaskier tried to duck away from his inspection. It is always best to be little noticed, he knows. It is always best when eyes slide off Jaskier like water does ducks.

“I give you the law of surprise, what we have that we do not yet know.” 

Eskel scoffs. He has no use for a dog, or an extra sack of grain. He needs coins or provisions, not empty promises. “I take coin, Lady Sirona. Not the Law of Surprise.”

Jaskier’s mum’s face falls slightly, and she glances down to him with regret glittering in her teary eyes. “My family and I offer the Law of Surprise to your guild, Witcher Eskel of School Wolf, in return for one deed. Take my son to Oxenfurt, Eskel.” She spits out his Name, as the three of the shudder for a moment, eyes flashing and spines snapping straight as Eskel glared at her. Mindlessly, he picked Jaskier up and put him in the saddle, face slack as he fulfilled part of her command.

The silver medallion on Eskel’s chest pulsed, and the man spun back to glare at Sirona. “What have you done?” He gasped, his hand still reaching for his mares reins. 

“What I had to.” Sirona backed away, making room for the enthralled Witcher to lead his horse out of the stall. “I’m sorry!” She shouted to his uncaring back. “I know it’s nothing- but I’m sorry!”

Jaskier screeches, trying to lunge out of the saddle to run back to his mother. But Eskel is stronger, and holds him back mechanically. Coldly. 

The two ride out of Lettenhove without another word.

—-

The golden eyed Witcher- Eskel- is quiet. He doesn’t scream at Jaskier, doesn’t disparage or insult him, despite his incessant chattering. Eskel even lets out a hum or a grunt every so often, just so that Jaskier knows he’s listening.

It’s the most attention any authority figure, bar his mum, has ever given Jaskier.

In recompense, Jaskier sings the little ditties his mother sang, and little flowers, yellow-tinged and out of season sprout and bloom in minutes. Crows and owls wheel in circles above them, hooting and cawing to the rhythm of his song. Deer similarly linger closer, run slower, and the pair find themselves eating well for being on the road.

Eskel’s medallion warms, warning of magic- But not of monster, or danger, or impending fight. Chaos is present, it sings. Chaos lingers in the air, entwined within the fading notes of the boy’s songs.

—-

Jaskier is eighteen, fresh out of Oxenfurt and touring the countryside to make fresh songs when the lovely townspeople of Posada start throwing bread at him with a loud cry of “Abort yourself!” accompanying it.

Jaskier did love an adoring crowd. He snatched up the bread roll chucked at him regardless, as he’d only bargained for a free room, not dinner, and stuffed the rolls down his britches. But as his gaze scanned the annoyed crowd, he spotted a black cloaked, grim figure.

His interest piqued, Jaskier saunters over. “Oh, come on, do you have a review? Three words or less, don’t keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.” Internally, Jaskier winced at that line. Surely he wasn’t that shite at flirting? 

A grunt, and then, “They’re not real.”

Jaskier isn’t idiotic, no matter whatever his jolly facade might seem, and so he regonises the double swords, black clothes, and silver medallion immediately. His tired heart tugs, remembering the first man to care for him, but he throws that sliver of emotion- weakness- out of his mind. This Witcher is no Eskel, no matter the wolf howling over his breast. Did Eskel even remember the little boy he’d taken to safety? 

Jaskier didn’t ask for fear of the answer.

“I.. I.. you’re the Witcher! Geralt, of Rivia!” Jaskier continues, his smile straining only the slightest bit.

Another grunt. How fucking verbose, Witchers were. Jaskier wondered if Eskel had been more the exception than the rule. Geralt’s attitude would explain the reputation Humans forced upon the golden-eyed mutants, but in his short life, Jaskier had learned that they rarely bothered to ask questions before labeling an entire People as monsters. 

As Jaskier looked over the sad, stone-faced figure, he tried to pinch himself. Even as he’d spoken the Witcher’s Name, there hadn’t been much power in it- not because the Witcher hadn’t given him his name, but because…. was it false? Were Witchers renamed to avoid former family members from locating them? They couldn’t be immune to a fae’s call, Eskel had been all too vulnerable….

Jaskier groaned as his curiosity got the better of him, and he followed the cloaked man out of the tavern, past the villager with a devil’s tale, and up towards the last remnants of a former Evellian stronghold.

Jaskier was fucked, irredeemably and irrevocably, but he regretted his choice not one whit. And so he followed the Witcher away, like a lost little puppy, a loyal barker, a being in love, in a world that denied monsters like him that very emotion.

**Author's Note:**

> challenge: find the Shakespearean dick joke


End file.
